


The Magicians and the Revenants

by Lalaith



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Book Spoilers, Gen, Post-Canon, Zombies, gratuitous use of the epistolary form, gratuituous use of commas, probable tv series spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:11:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lalaith/pseuds/Lalaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three practical magicians stymie the onset of 'Pride and Prejudice and Zombies'.</p>
<p>Spoiler warning: this story was written for Yuletide 2010, and occurs after the novel ends.  It contains immediate references to end-of-book spoilers and probable tv series spoilers, so reader beware. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Introductory Footnote

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurvandil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurvandil/gifts).



One bright morning in late November, three years after the Restoration of English Magic and the disappearance of the Two Foremost Magicians of the Age, a country Attorney from the village of Todmorden, West Yorkshire, decided over his morning toast to visit his cousin in Leeds. 

The Attorney had almost completed the first leg of his journey when a large black coach, travelling at break-neck speed, struck his gig in passing.  Both carriages stopp’d and Mr. Weatherfield, a large imposing man with a law practice besides, and therefore unus’d to suffering injustice or insult even from the Rich, drew himself up to his full height and marched over to the other vehicle to demand renumeration.  The gentleman in the coach was exceedingly sorry; he desir’d to make it up to Mr. Weatherfield; would Mr. Weatherfield be willing to ride with him in his barouche-landau while they discussed the matter?  When an aspiring gentleman is offered a ride in a barouche-landau he does not refuse the offer – tho’ Mr. Weatherfield wasn’t quite convinced that it _was_ a barouche-landau.  He got in.  The compartment when he enter’d it at first seemed to have a whiff of the charnel house, and he drew back in disgust – but a moment later he had forgotten it, for his pleasant host was asking him something and the air was fine, quite fine – in fact there were lillies and carnations to perfume the air. 

Mr. Weatherfield was sat next to his host, who desired to be known as Mr. Gielgud, and opposite the gentleman’s two friends.  All three were intensely interested in Mr. Weatherfield’s life and concerns, of which they seem’d to have some knowledge already.  Mr. Weatherfield was delighted that his firm must have garnered him a reputation amongst the elite, and was pleas’d to entertain his companions at length from his store of legal anecdotes.

At length he became aware that his companions had ceased listening to him and were conversing with one another.

 “The bite of one shall be sufficient, and the bites of many shall be a curse,” intoned the Romanian gentleman.

““ _Yr a rodaf idau ef hagen, kystal a chynt yd ymlad auory_ ,” added Mr. Gielgud.[1]

_THE OFFERINGS MUST NEVER CEASE UNTIL THE LAST HUMAN HAS BEEN SLAIN UPON THE ALTARS OF MEFISTO.[2]_ said the third gentleman.   

 Mr. Weatherfield began to be uncomfortable.The charnel smell was filling his nostrils again, and he suspected that he was in the presence of Enthusiasts.    

Mr. Țepeș asked him whether he would be willing to serve as their agent in a matter of Redress. 

“Oh! I would be happy to oblige you,” replied Mr. Weatherfield, “only I must be getting back home.”

Mr. Gielgud kindly invited him to be the executor of their Will.

“Oh! Oh! Of course, only I must return to Todmorden immediately.  I have so many affairs to attend to, and it is nearly Christmas.”

Mephisto summoned him in an awful voice to the destruction of their enemies.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!  Anything, anything – only let me go this instant!”

The door open’d, and Mr. Weatherfield found himself flung bodily out of the coach.  He tumbled in air and darkness for what seem’d an eternity before light return’d and he pitched headlong down the front steps of his home. His body fetched up on the street, convulsed twice, and was still.

“The English are going to be busy this winter,” observed Llwyd ap Cil Coed, closing the door.

 

* * *

[1] Middle Welsh: “And however many blows he receives, he will be just as able to fight.”  A quote from the Mabinogion, here invoking a fairy’s enchantment of invincibility. 

[2] A quote from the single “Reaping Death” (2010) by Swedish death metal group, Waitan.


	2. Chapter 2

Charles Ward, Curate of St. Mary’s Anglican Church

Burnley Road, Todmorden, Yorkshire.  December 28, 1820

 

To Miss Anne Ward, 328 Grosvenor Square, London

 

My dear sister,

I have been at a loss to know what to write, for with your good Sense I know you may scarcely credit the half of what I have to tell.  You may think me raving, or lost in a childhood fancy - I confess I have often doubted my sanity since my isolation began up here in this wild North, and never more than in the past few weeks.  We have survived a Calamity – there is no other word for it – and to explain the nature of it and of our salvation must take some time.  Nonetheless, to you I have promised to be utterly candid – and so I ask you to indulge me with a hearing.  Remember that we are living now in an age of wonders, wherein the boundaries of knowledge are pushed further each day. And is not this cold time of year most noted among Men for its miracles?

You will remember that in my last letter I told you how at the beginning of this month, I buried the village attorney, one Mr. Weatherfield, who had (poor soul!) died abruptly of some sort of fall.  Many since have blamed me for my service, and found fault with every element of it! for it was not three days after Mr. Weatherfield was Interr’d in his grave, that he disdained it, and rush’d about the town all night in the company of howling dogs![1]  Few abode the coming of Mr. Weatherfield, deceased but not departed, and neither worldly medicine nor Christian burial proved any comfort to those who encountered him.  Poor Mrs. Higgins was the first victim – I will spare you the details, dear sister, but she was a mere pile of bloody bones when we discovered her.  Still worse, Miss Purle, Mr. Weston, and young Jim Saunders not only fell Victim to the monster, but join’d him in his ghastly hunt!  So Pratt, the footman of Lord D-----, assured us, and he spoke with Authority on the matter, as he died from their attack.  Pratt liv’d long enough to ask for me, and I swore by the lives of my mother and sisters that I would find a final end to this terror.

Pratt had told me that he had attempted to reason with his attackers, having known the adults from his youth and poor Jim from his day of birth – but that they responded to no appeals, nor _could_ respond, being reduc’d at that time to mindless corpses with no trace of their former selves.  Yet in Mr. Weatherfield, their leader, I thought I detected some evidence of more considered Malice, from the reports of his behaviour that ranged throughout the village.  Alas!  I will confess that in this time of trial, my living parishioners cursed me, blamed me for our Troubles, and avoided my church, while they arranged ungodly shrines at every crossroads pleading for the Raven King to save the town from its Affliction. In vain did I attempt to dissuade them from this irreligious practice. 

In short, the ghouls and their diabolical leader prey’d upon us without mercy for three weeks, until the town had Emptied in fear, and I was left alone, barricaded in my cottage behind St Mary’s.  My letters to the Bishop of York and to the Army had gone unheeded or mocked.  At length, in loneliness and desperation, I took up my pen and wrote in my madness a letter addressed to the Raven King himself, and put it out my window on the second floor.  I watched a gust of wind take it away, across the churchyard where even now I could see the Unmentionables gathering, o’er the rooftops of the village, and up into the night.

Now!  I have run out of pages, and must stop for today.  But I will tell you that when I returned to my sitting room, where my supplies, my food, and my makeshift weapons were stored, three men were greeting each other warmly as old friends!  They were standing as though at this very moment they had arrived (tho’ I could not see how they had passed my barricade!) and were at first oblivious to my presence.  One of my guests was entirely unknown to me – an uneasy mixture of spit and polish, gentleman and rogue – but I recognized the other two instantly from the papers, tho’ they had not been seen in several years.  They were Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell.

Yr loving brother,

Charles

* * *

[1] While Dogs are venerated rightly as the noblest companions of Man and Magician, they also have an unfortunate reputation as the loyal attendants of the Undead.  In this case as in many, inquiring scholars have doubted whether the dogs accompanying the strange figure were actually his Accomplices, were howling to warn their Masters of the Danger, or were simply enjoying the excitement of late-night Walkies.


	3. Chapter 3

December 29, 1820.

My dear sister,

I have found a considerable supply of stationary, and expect few further interruptions to our tale. 

  
I will try to be brief, but I must give you some impression of these extraordinary magicians as I met them. Mr. Gilbert Norrell was always reputed to be a scholar of infinite learning, and so I found him. I also found him dismissive of my person, fearful of our safety, critical of my barricade, and until actually faced with them, seemingly of two minds whether to consider the Revenants a personal danger or an academic fraud put on by myself and various medieval historians. I felt that I had met him before, in the Senior Fellows at Magdalene, and he put my hackles up just as much as ever they did. 

There was some tension between Mr. Norrell and John Childermass, for the two, it seems, had not laid eyes on each other since Norrell dismissed the man from his employ after some sort of quarrel. Mr. Childermass was reserved and aloof in his manner, and struck me as a man with few Friends; yet he regarded his fellow guests with such obvious curiosity, that I believe, despite the differences between them, that he counted these two among that number. Childermass lives in Yorkshire, and lucky we are to have such a man among us.

Jonathan Strange at outward appearance was a tall gentleman of youthful disposition and easy manners – the sort one sees everywhere in the best London clubs. Yet of all three men he was also the most remote to me. At times he seemed to have the most human of spirits; yet his language betrayed at times a troubling distance from the thoughts and feelings of ordinary men. I wished to like him, yet I feared him. When we shook hands his skin was icy cold. 

My visitors each knew of my problem, tho’ when I asked them how they had heard of it they were disconcerted and unable to tell me. Whatever Telepathic or psychic message had reached them, they were misinformed in several particulars, and I told them my tale from the beginning as I heated water for tea in my fire. 

“Non facile in fidem reciperetur nisi nostri temporis testimonia abundarent,”[1] Norrell quoted when I had finished – ‘– It would not be easy, young man, to believe your story, if the phenomenon were not well documented elsewhere. Fortunately, there are many accounts of Revenants in Magical History, although many are polluted by sensationalist exaggeration.”[2]”

“Yet wondrous as it is,” Strange added, “it seems clear that Norrell, Childermass and myself have been sent to be your assistants in this affair. What would you have us do?” 

“I-” I blushed. “I am at your service, masters, not the other way around. I have been at my wits’ end these past four weeks.”

Finding me bereft of strategy, the magicians turned to each other, and in the subsequent hours I confess I did little to help besides brew more tea, and sharpen the gardening implements I had collected as my weapons. Despite the long acquaintance of these men, the congress was far from easy. Mr. Norrell often paused the conference to ask Childermass details of the recent developments of English magic – the names of the premier magicians of the day - the state of his own name and Mr. Strange’s – what had become of the royalties from his book?[3] Childermass answered each of his questions so readily, demonstrating such a wide and minute knowledge of English magic that I interrupted, despite myself, to ask if he himself was not a practicing magician. 

Great was the surprize of Mr. Norrell, and loud and hearty the congratulations of Strange, when Childermass said that he was. Strange actually stood up and embraced the man, and the conversation might have run in this way for some time if renewed howls and shrieks outside had not recall’d us to our desperate purpose. 

So mighty were my would-be saviours, and so far removed from the concerns of ordinary life, that at first I had some difficulty in dissuading them from pursuing an extreme solution, which was well within their power. Norrell waxed enthusiastic upon the properties of running Water as a dispeller of evil Magic, and suggested calling up a great flood to submerge the area. Strange in turn was of the opinion that Fire would provide the most efficient purgation of the epidemic, and proposed a conflagration of the village.[4] My outraged protests were scarcely heard by the two senior magicians, but Childermass with less distress and greater practicality proposed a plan less destructive of property, tho’ more dangerous to us. 

“Norrell, I have always heard you say that Revenants are fairly easily destroy’d even by an ordinary man, so long as he be firm of resolution. Is not this the case?” 

I broke in to say that we had not destroyed any of the Afflicted in our case. Childermass shot me an impatient look.

“You have barely tried, sir. Not all of us can be an Asmund – but it is obvious to all that the only useful thing you have done is call upon us. Now -- ” he turned to the others, as my face burned. “Gentlemen?”

Norrell confirmed that in the medieval accounts, clergymen and warriors had been equal to the challenges posed by the ghouls, though the danger did not usually pass until the body of the first riser was dismembered or burnt. Mr. Strange was not easy – he owned that he had Animated the Dead himself, once upon a time, and believ’d he had more experience of the magical principles behind such a task than did Norrell.[5] He felt there was a deeper Plan at work, an Enemy behind, if only we could find out what or who. Nonetheless, we agreed upon two tasks – to destroy the army of the dead if we could, and by killing the leader once again, to end forever the dread command that bade them rise.   
…

I put my palm on the outer door of my barricade and felt it leap in response to some hidden blow from without. We could not know how many of the Afflicted awaited us outside, and Strange and Childermass had gone together out the second-floor window to discover their numbers and open a way for us if possible. Norrell and I were unsuited by age or temperament for the acrobatics necessary for the window departure, and had remained on the first floor, removing the braces on the front door and ready to join the fray when the signal was given. At last, we heard muffled human shouts above the groans of the undead, and swung the door wide to give our assistance. 

Childermass and Strange stood back to back in St. Mary’s yard in the midst of a roaring horde of the stricken. Perhaps there were sixteen of my afflicted parishioners in all, tho’ Strange and Childermass had dispatched several already. Childermass was wielding a long shovel like the quarter-staves of old. Mr. Weston leaped on him, fingerbones reaching for his face, and Childermass knocked him back, turned him over and drove the shovel-blade home. Jonathan Strange was laying about with an officer’s sabre with merciless efficiency. When Norrell and I opened the door, we attracted the notice of several of my former friends, at which point Norrell drew an antique set of dueling pistols, and I hefted my splitting axe. 

Of what we did in the churchyard that night I wish to report as little as possible. It fills me with horror even to think of it -- I think at any rate I shall never chop wood again. Though the numbers were unequal, the odds were in our favour, for the Undead had lost their human intelligence, and tho’ filled with a ravening hunger, their bodies posed natural constraints, for many of the plague’s initial victims had been elderly, or young and small. At any rate once Norrell and Strange began using magic, the battle was over in short order, and the bodies were laid again to their merciful and final rest. Yet this struggle had an unexpected and disastrous consequence. As we worked to lift the corpses to a makeshift pyre, Childermass gave a choked cry; Miss Purle had revived in his arms, and was gnawing greedily on his throat! 

My companions reacted instantly. Strange took on a look of savage concentration, and the young woman evaporated in a stroke of lightning. Norrell caught Childermass as he collapsed to the ground, endeavoring to staunch his wound with the sleeve of his coat and whispering encouragements mixed with spells of preservation and healing. Yet it was obvious to all of us that Childermass had been contaminated.

I can write no more today. I will conclude my story tomorrow. Until then, dear Sister, I remain,

Yrs affectionately,

Charles.

[1] The fuller quote, by William of Newburgh, Historia Rerum Anglicarum Book 5 (1191AD): “It would not be easy to believe that the corpses of the dead should sally (I know not by what agency) from their graves, and should wander about to the terror or destruction of the living, and again return to the tomb, which of its own accord spontaneously opened to receive them, did not frequent examples, occurring in our own times, suffice to establish this fact, to the truth of which there is abundant testimony.”   
[2] One of the most overlook’d Revenant stories comes to us from the Vikings, as recorded Saxo Grammaticus’s History of the Danes, Book 9 (12th Century AD), copied here, translated from the Latin by Oliver Elton. "Meanwhile Aswid died of an illness, and was consigned with his horse and dog to a cavern in the earth. And Asmund, because of his oath of friendship, had the courage to be buried with him, food being put in for him to eat. Now just at this time Erik, who had crossed the uplands with his army, happened to draw near the barrow of Aswid; and the Swedes, thinking that treasures were in it, broke the hill open with mattocks, and saw disclosed a cave deeper than they had thought. To examine it, a man was wanted, who would lower himself on a hanging rope tied around him. One of the quickest of the youths was chosen by lot; and Asmund, when he saw him let down in a basket following a rope, straightway cast him out and climbed into the basket. Then he gave the signal to draw him up to those above who were standing by and controlling the rope. They drew in the basket in the hopes of great treasure; but when they saw the unknown figure of the man they had taken out, they were scared by his extraordinary look, and, thinking that the dead had come to life, flung down the rope and fled all ways. For Asmund looked ghastly and seemed to be covered as with the corruption of the charnel. He tried to recall the fugitives, and began to clamour that they were wrongfully afraid of a living man. And when Erik saw him, he marvelled most at the aspect of his bloody face: the blood flowing forth and spurting over it. For Aswid had come to life in the nights, and in his continual struggles had wrenched off his left ear; and there was to be seen the horrid sight of a raw and unhealed scar. And when the bystanders bade him tell how he had got such a wound, he began to speak thus:   "Why stand ye aghast, who see me colourless? Surely every live man fades among the dead. Hapless are they whom chance hath bereft of human help. The listless night of the cavern, the darkness of the ancient den, have taken all joy from my eyes and soul. The ghastly ground, the crumbling barrow, and the heavy tide of filthy things have marred the grace of my youthful countenance, and sapped my wonted pith and force. Besides all this, I have fought with the dead, enduring the heavy burden and grievous peril of the wrestle; Aswid rose again and fell on me with rending nails, by hellish might renewing ghastly warfare […] Yet the bringer of horrors did it not unscathed; for soon I cut off his head with my steel, and impaled his guilty carcase with a stake. Why stand ye aghast who see me colourless? Surely every live man fades among the dead.”  
[3] When Mr. Norrell disappeared from England Hurtfew Abbey vanished with him, as is recorded elsewhere. This posed Norrell’s now erstwhile lawyer Mr. Robinson some difficulties, for Norrell as a secretive magician was in the habit of keeping his Will and other legal documents at Home. A note apparently in Mr. Norrell's handwriting was discover'd fortuitously in Mr. Robinson's chocolate pot, advising that all his remaining wealth and assets should be deliver'd into the hands of one Roger Vinculus, his Heir, but nobody believ'd the authenticity of this letter, and the matter remains under Dispute.  
[4] Strange was thinking of Farriner’s Concrematio, so named after the baker-magician who in September 1666 rediscovered the lost Greek Fire of the Byzantines while modifying a simple cooking spell – a modification unfortunately fatal to the magician and many others, and destroying much of London in an inferno.  
[5] Referring to the affair with the Seventeen Dead Neapolitans while on campaign with Wellington.


	4. Chapter 4

December 30th, 1820.

 

Dear Sister,

We carried Childermass into my sitting room and laid him upon the couch.  Strange and Norrell were arguing fiercely about medicines and restoratives of Earth and Faerie.  I was weeping openly and uselessly, when Childermass opened his eyes and motioned me near him. 

“Listen carefully.  The source of the plague must be destroyed.  You said there was a man, an attorney, who rose first.  Was he in the churchyard?”

“He was not.  Oh, sir -”

“You must go now and kill him, do you understand?  Jonathan might help you, but Gilbert will not like to leave me now.  They are tied together.  Neither can go where the other does not.  They think – “ he coughed and swallowed painfully.

“I have much to tell them.  But listen!  Your enemy is leaving the village, and soon will take the Plague all over Europe.  He must be stopped, tonight, or it will be too late.”

He clasped my hand, and for an instant I saw letters in the flames of the fire, words in the shadows stretched across the wall, and all were urging me to go, go.

Childermass smiled wryly. “It seems you must be Asmund after all.”

…

 

There were fresh tracks in the snow on Burnley Road leading past St Mary’s, up towards the highway.  I ran beside them past row upon row of shuttered and darkened houses, and careless of my footing in the cold, for I slipp’d several times and nearly cut myself on my axe. 

Finally I turned the corner to the square before the Town Hall.  The snow skittered across the open space, and a figure was moving slowly through it.  My Opponent was before me.

Mr. Weatherfield’s grave-clothes hung stinking around him and his feet were bare and scratched.   The flesh of his belly and lower body was grossly swollen, as tho’ fit to burst with blood and water, while his hands and face were deathly pale.  Yet his eyes, when I hailed him!  The eyes of the corpse were lit with an unholy fire, and yet there was _that_ in its gaze as it turn’d to me, which was like the old Mr. Weatherfield.  Whoever or whatever this creature now was, clearly it not only wore the body of the old attorney, but something of his soul as well.  We had fought in the churchyard the animated remains of human beings, but I had no fears that their spirits, wherever they were, slept not peacefully, in blissful ignorance of their bodies’ work.  Yet whether Prisoner or Partaker, Mr. Weatherfield had staid beyond death to terrorize the living; in this hideous and vicious incarnation he had stalk’d his Friends, and would carry the Plague beyond, if suffer’d to do so.[1]

There is a limit, dear sister, to what every embattled creature can stand.  There is a point at which anticipation ceases and, as hope dies, the mind seeks inward.  At that point, soldiers have laugh’d at inanities or been lost in fond memories, and one seeks nothing so much as freedom from fear and horror.  It is a dangerous place.  I felt the strongest desire never to think of this apparition more.

There was a kind of radiance in the back of my mind.  I mov’d between the revenant and the highway.  Mr. Weatherfield advanced towards me, and there was no mistaking the predator in his movements.  I lifted my axe, and we hewed and claw’d at each other until our blood pasted the snow and there was nothing left of Mr. Weatherfield. 

It is the strangest thing, sister, but I cannot remember how I return’d to St. Mary’s.  I remember thinking I saw a large black coach, and hailing it – but there was a man with me, who said I should not like to go in it, and told me three names.  Perhaps I walk’d the rest of the way after all, yet I seem to remember flying.

…

 

Jonathan Strange was performing magic in my parlour when I return’d.  He held in his hands a glowing crystal globe and was examining the patterns of its brilliance, by which he assured me that with the primary Revenant destroyed the crisis had passed.  I pointed out to him that Childermass and I might swiftly be joining the ranks of the damned ourselves, if Childermass had not already done so. 

Jonathan was surprized.  He looked up, and took in my condition; he ordered me instantly to sit, while he unwrapped my garments and exposed my wounds.  His hands were cool, but surprisingly gentle, and I found myself leaning into their touch.  Strange stepped back to consider, and treated me to a warm look. 

“Gilbert discovered a cure for John’s contagion about half an hour ago.  I daresay the same remedy can be used on you.”[2]

 

My next (and last) clear memory of the night is of reclining on my couch with a glass of sherry at my elbow.  Jonathan Strange was reading old papers by the fire; Norrell and Childermass were playing chess.  Childermass was pale, with a large plaster covering his throat, but he was alert and doing well in the game; within a few minutes Norrell huffed in annoyance and knocked over his king.  I opened my mouth to congratulate the victor, and found myself instead passing on a message, which included three names.[3] Strange folded up his Paper on the instant with a question for Norrell, and Norrell left Childermass staring after him as he leapt up with an urgent need to consult Belasis.  We stood to shake Hands; then the two friends left us for other adventures, by the expedient means of walking briskly through the wall.

And with that, dear sister, I conclude my account.  God willing, that will be the last we hear of Revenants for some time, tho’ I will hope every day to hear more of these great men.

 

I remain, of course,

Yr affectionate brother &c.

Charles Ward

Dec 30, 1820.

 

 _fin._

 

[1] The nature of fairy, ghost, zombie and vampyre souls has long interested the discerning magician-theologist.  In this realm of inquiry much remains dark; scholars have for many years continued to gain employment investigating why, for example, vampires on the whole betray a sensibility of their past lives as humans, and mere hungry corpses do not.

[2] Ward records no more of the cure for the dread affliction; whether this _lacuna_ emerged from ignorance, weary distraction, or a sense of delicacy may be a matter for debate.  But we are referred to the words of aureate magician Catherine of Winchester: “ _Above all remember this: that magic belongs as much to the heart as to the head and everything which is done, should be done from love or joy or righteous anger...”_ Whether the cure was _administer’d_ through an Apple of the Hesperides, water from the Cup of Life, or any other form, it was _made possible_ by(and, I believe, chiefly composed of) these basic human elements.

[3] What the Raven King and the English people did at various times to annoy or discomfit Vlad Țepeș Dracula, the demon Mephistopheles, and the fairy Llwyd ap Cil Coed of Annwn, and how these characters continued the feud subsequently with Strange, Norrell, and other heroes even to the present day, might fit an entire History, were there anyone knowledgeable enough to write it.  At present these tales are best left for another time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks, dear reader, for staying with me. This was my first fic, and there are many things I would still work with giv'n world enough and time! (It is, however, at present late on Christmas Eve.) Many thanks again to gorgeous and _clever_ betas, azurelunatic, silverwine, and writewithlightning. I only hope this year the JS &MN fandom will produce many more fics to satisfy our cravings, and that you have a lovely holiday.


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